The Year's Best Horror Stories XXII

SALT SNAKE by Simon Clark

“Are you going to give the bitch one?”

“Aye, go on. Then drive the car through the front of the house and set it on fucking fire. Burn the bloody lot.”

“Shut it, bollock brain. I’m thinking.”

Viper, leader of the gang, sat on the edge of the antique oak table smoking a cigarette. Tattooed snakes writhed up his long bare arms in red coils. Two tattooed snake heads, jaws open, fangs dripping blobs of venom protruded from under his FUCK YOU! T-shirt. Around his neck was the tattoo he did in Borstal with a safety pin and a biro nicked from some fat-arsed screw. The dotted blue line bisected his neck. Ugly letters pricked CUT HERE.

Viper cleared his throat and spat thickly on the rich carpet. “You ’aven’t touched her then, Spuggy?”

“Course I ain’t,” said a blond-haired lad.

“Good job, or I’d split your fucking face.”

“If you ask me,” said the third, Joe, in a leather jacket that smelt of piss, “she’s out of her tree. All she does is look out of the window and go on about the sea being full of salt.”

“Well Viper’s not going to give her an IQ test first, is he?”

Viper threw what was left of the cigarette at a fireplace big enough to roast a whole pig in, and stood up. “I’m starving. Get the beer from the car, Joe.” To the blondhaired one he said, “Spuggy, get some snap on the go. Chips with something. Make it a boat load. I’ll give the mad bitch upstairs a seeing-to later.”

Spuggy smiled as an idea prodded into his mind. “We got them video cameras on the last ram. We could—you know—film it.”

Viper scowled as he lit another cigarette. “No one’s taking home movies of my bollocks.”

“No.” Spuggy looked sly. “Get Joe to—you know—after you’ve done. Then we could do a snuff film. Sell it. You know, make a few grand.”

“What, kill her? Yer out of ya tree, Spuggy. Go peel some spuds.”

Viper returned to the polished table to smoke the cigarette. For the past week they’d torn through Lincolnshire, twoccing cars and ram raiding shops. Anything from off-licenses to electronic stores. Now they’d got enough booze, cigs, videos and hi-fis to return to the Yorkshire estate where they squatted and to live like the sons of Tory MPs for a few weeks. Viper spat. The only trouble was the cops had got too friggin close. When the weather got bad, fog so thick you couldn’t see as far as your arse, they’d lost them. Then they’d driven the van along roads that seemed to get narrower and more twisted by the mile. At one point, they’d seen a sign that told them they’d made it into Norfolk. They’d kept going, looking for a nice empty house. Miles from anywhere.

By dark they’d reached one. A big old manorhouse or something at the edge of the sea. The nearest village was ten miles away. This was nice and quiet. They’d rest, fill their bellies, get pissed, shit all over the duvets and kick in the oak paneling. Then they’d go.

But the house hadn’t been deserted.

In a bedroom, they’d found a girl of about eighteen, just dressed in a short cotton nightie. With the longest legs you’ve ever seen, Spuggy had said she was wearing no knickers but Viper hadn’t seen anything. Not that it mattered. She’d got long blonde hair all the way down her back. And her face… Well, it was no oil painting but there was something striking about it.

“Did you notice,” said Spuggy later, “she’s got a squint, you know, boz-eyed.”

Joe had laughed. “Not much of one. Not enough to put you off giving her one. Or are you queer or something, Spuggy?”

That had nearly caused a fight until Viper quelled it with a scowling look. One thing they all agreed on though: she had a slate missing.

Joe sniffed. “Wonder why they left her here?”

“Her folks have gone to some poncey do,” said Viper. “They didn’t want her farting in front of the vicar or peeing in the soupcon.”

The what-son?

“The soupcon, stupid. Right, search the rest of the house.”

There was no one else. The cellar was full of dusty bottles of wine. They opened some, but it tasted like vinegar. A few bottles they smashed against the whitewashed walls in explosions of red like blood. Spuggy laughed and babbled on about dropping nuns out of helicopters. He used to be funny. Now he was just a pain. Viper told himself he’d blow him out when they got back home.

“Christ, it’s getting like cottage cheese out there. You don’t get fog like that on the Warwick estate.” Joe set half a dozen packs of Carlsberg Special Brew on the table.

“Aw, scared are we?” jeered Spuggy as he shoved a plateful of sausage and chips across the table.

“Get stuffed.” Joe stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. A couple fell on the carpet. “I was ready for that… Jesus! Look at that!”

Viper’s patience was running thin. “What?”

“On me skin.” Joe held up his hands. “There’s something on me skin.”

“Nivea hand cream, I shouldn’t wonder,” chuckled Spuggy, stabbing a sausage.

Joe looked at his hand closely. It looked white. “You know it’s…” He licked the back of his hand. “Salt,” he announced. “I’m covered in bloody salt. Look at me jacket.” A thick film of white covered the black leather.

“It’s bloody obvious.” Viper opened a can of Carlsberg to wash the chips down. “Sea fog. And like the dippo upstairs says, the sea’s full of salt. Now eat your bastard chips before I start cracking someone.”

They ate in silence, apart from the sound of their jaws mashing sausage and chips and sucking on the cans.

Christ, this’s good, thought Viper opening his third lager. A car full of good shit to sell; more beer and food than you could ever get into your belly; a place of your own—Foggy Mansions he’d call it—and an ace-looking tart waiting upstairs for yours truly to work his own brand of magic on.

“Who do you think she is?” Viper jabbed his fork toward the ceiling.

“God knows,” said Spuggy. “Dippy tart won’t say. She won’t even tell you her name. If I were you, Viper, I’d go up there and give her a slap.”

Viper spat on the floor. “You’re not me, so I’m not. These sausages are bloody burned. Can’t you cook owt?”

Spuggy couldn’t answer back so he tried to wind up Joe, asking him when he was going to get some clothes that hadn’t been in fashion in 1966. Joe grunted and shoved his empty plates away from him. “I’m going to see if that bird wants owt to eat.”

Spuggy winked at Viper as Joe left the room. “Reckon I hurt sweetheart’s feelings.”

Viper opened another can. No doubt about it, he’d ditch Spuggy when they got back home. Okay, he’d been a mad bugger ever since they’d gone to school together. He used to be a laugh.

Now you just didn’t know what he’d do next.

“She’s legged it.” Joe stood panting in the doorway.

“You’ve checked all the rooms?” Viper was on his feet.

“All of them. She’s gone. Front door’s open.”

Viper rubbed the coiling snake tattoos on his forearm. “Well, she can’t get far.”

Spuggy smashed an empty can against the table with his fist. “What that tart needs is a good slapping.”

Viper ignored him. “Come on, let’s find her.”

Outside, the fog was thick—thicker than any fog Viper had seen before. It was like pressing your face into wet cotton wool. He licked his lips.

Sea fog. Salt. He could taste it on his lips.

“Split up,” he ordered. “She won’t be far away.”

Even though it must have been still dusk, visibility was near nil. Within half a dozen paces he could no longer see the house or the other two. Although he could hear Spuggy muttering something half-baked.

Viper worked his way along a garden path—one of those made out of broken slabs they call crazy paving. Crazy? He chuckled under his breath. Spuggy would be at home here. Crazy bastard.

The fog seemed to grow more dense. Sometimes he brushed against unseen bushes, a branch would catch his hair like bats’ claws. Christ, it was so thick you even breathed it in. He coughed. The salt taste bit his tongue. Where the hell was she?

Viper searched, tripping and sliding across the uneven path. He could see nothing. He might as well have been in a sack full of cotton wool. Hell, he could hardly see his bastard feet. The tattoo snakes on his arms began to prickle, the way they did when he began to get aggravated.

The next thing he heard was a faint roaring sound. It grew louder as he walked. He paused, listening to the sound—a constant roaring, roiling across the garden and away into the mist like a…

Sea, he told himself. Fucking sea. He wished he’d got a cigarette.

With the unseen surf roaring in the distance masking any sound, and the thickness of the fog, he found himself searching almost by touch alone.

Just as he began to think about giving up, his finger tips brushed soft fabric.

“Where did you think you were off to, luv?” Viper watched as she slowly turned to look at him with an odd blank expression. She did not speak. Viper spat into the grass. “You’ll end up losing yourself in this muck, you know.”

“The stream is all dried up.” She turned to look down into a waterless ditch. “The water doesn’t flow there any more.”

“S’been a good summer, luv.” He cringed at the thing he heard in his voice. Gentleness? Christ! Just give the bitch a clip. Or give her a damn good shag here and now in the long grass. Then send her back home with grass stains all over her arse. He’d done that before now. But he couldn’t do it to her. He couldn’t even bring himself to swear at her.

“It’s dry,” she said softly. “Look.”

He took a pace forward into the long grass and looked into the ditch. Beneath a few leaves and the odd stick, the mud was cracked and hard.

“Careful,” she said in that soft voice again. “There are snakes in the grass.”

“Snakes?” Viper gave a laugh. “What, like this, luv?” He held out his arms, showing her the crimson tattoo snakes. She gazed at them for a moment but said nothing.

He sighed. “Come on, luv. Back to the ranch.”

Viper was going to take her by the arm, but she walked purposefully ahead of him back to the house. It was only then that he noticed she wore the same short nightdress. Her feet were bare.

Now the sea fog had deposited salt on the lawn and bushes. It looked as if a thick frost had turned everything white.

“Weee-urd.” Spuggy stood by the big front door swigging lager from a can. “Out for a walk in our nightie were we, sweetheart?”

“If anyone’s weird it’s you, Spuggy,” said Joe, pushing past him to get into the house.

“Inside,” ordered Viper, “and get the blasted door shut. This fucking fog is getting on me wick.”

For a while they drank more cans of Special Brew, tossing the gold cans round the sitting room with its luxurious leather armchairs and settee. An oil painting of three black horses hung on one wall; it was as big as a garage door. The girl stared out of the window. Viper didn’t know why. The fucking fog was thicker than ever and it was as black as his granny’s armpit.

Spuggy got up and walked to the door, through into the hall. The front door slammed. He was back in three minutes, almost embarrassed.

“Can’t find the sodding van. That fog’s bleedin’ solid.”

The girl turned. “I’ll show you,” she said.

Grinning, Spuggy followed her and Viper heard him sneer under his breath. “Like a lamb to the bleedin’ slaughter.”

Pisshead. Viper opened a beer. Spuggy was gone a long time. Full cans became empty cans, and Viper and Joe slumped deeper into the armchairs too pissed to even talk. Viper drifted in and out of sleep. The room spun slowly round in a way that turned his stomach over… and over… over… and over… and…

He opened his eyes. The room was full of mist. The furniture had turned frosty white… shut that damn door… and over… and over… Spuggy’s cooked some manky sausage… ugh… Viper couldn’t see straight…

He licked his lips.

Salt. They were coated in salt.

His eyes opened. Viper saw Joe stretched out on the settee—all white—like he’d been covered in icing sugar. Christ, he wished he’d not drunk so much bloody…

“Joe. Shut the door. The fog’s in the bloody house. Joe!”

Joe did not move.

“Christ.” Muscles aching like they were wasted with AIDS, he limped across the floor. “Shift yourself.” Viper dragged Joe off the settee. He moaned and hauled himself to his feet.

In the hallway, Viper found the front door open with the fog flowing in like water through a breached dam. Bastard Spuggy. Left the bastard door open. He made it to the library.

Spuggy had been working.

“Christ, the mad bastard,” grunted Viper, and spat. Salt bit his tongue and burnt his throat.

Spuggy had set up two of the nicked camcorders on tripods; a color television showed the image of a teenage girl tied to book shelving.

It was no film. The camcorder pointed at the weird girl with the long hair and short nightie. Spuggy had tied her to the shelves with curtain cords. Her face was expressionless.

“Damn. I’ll find Spuggy, Joe. You stay here, you look like shit.”

“Feel like it,” Joe grunted. He leaned against the wall, his hair, face, clothes, leather jacket all white.

Viper looked at his own arms. The tattoo snakes had vanished, obliterated by a coating of salt. Forcing his shaking legs to move, Viper began a search of the house.

Empty room upon empty room. Fancy four-poster beds, dressing rooms, bathrooms with gold taps. No Spuggy. Bastard.

As Viper trotted down a long passageway, he almost cracked into Spuggy. The idiot was carrying a portable TV and what looked like an ornamental dagger with a blade as long as your arm.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Viper tried to spit the salt out of his burning mouth.

Spuggy’s eyes blazed. Viper had never seen the man so excited. “Snuff movie,” Spuggy panted, dribbling. “Snuff movie.” He pushed past Viper and hurried downstairs.

Thrash the bastard. Viper nodded to himself. Thrash the bastard, let him know who’s boss. Aching, he followed.

This place… Viper shook his head dizzily. He opened his eyes to find himself outside the library, on his knees. How long had he been like that?

He hauled himself through the doorway. Even though mist and salt bleached out whole chunks of the scene, he could see enough. He could see enough…

Joe had changed. No, he was white. He had lost his edges to the burning whiteness. Viper lurched toward him. Joe leaned against the wall where Viper had left him but he was coated in white a centimeter, two centimeters, thick.

Salt.

“Joe?” Viper’s voice was a faint croak.

“Don’t bother. He’s dead,” called Spuggy callously. He was adjusting the position of the camcorders, the pictures on the two sets swinging drunkenly every time he kicked at the leg of a tripod. The girl tied to the bookshelves watched him impassively.

Viper looked at Joe’s salt-caked face. The features were almost all gone. He was…

No, no. Viper looked into his eyes. They were covered by a thickening film of salt, but he could see Joe’s blue eyes. And they were moving rapidly from side to side with the quick movements of a frightened baby.

Spuggy spoke cheerfully. “Gonna do a snuff movie, Viper.”

“No.”

“Who’s gonna stop me, Viper?”

“Me.” Viper tried to take a step, but he could not move his feet. He tried to raise his arms, then to twist his torso. He couldn’t. His whole body was thickening with salt. Stiff. It was as if he was turning to stone.

Bastard! Bastard legs, bastard arms… It was getting difficult to breathe; his vision came and went in gouts of white. Sort of misty.

Viper could only watch as Spuggy switched on the camcorder. On the portable was a medium shot of Joe now entombed in salt, like an Egyptian mummy swathed in white. Just a white amorphous blob.

The other TV showed the girl, her head turned away as if trying to see through the window. Viper no longer saw her face. His head was frozen. Only Spuggy and the girl seemed free of the settling salt.

Then Spuggy had the dagger with its vicious blade cutting the mist. You could have sliced up a whole bullock with that thing.

Spuggy waved the knife in front of him and Viper realized he was showing it to the cameras. On the large screen, he saw the girl turn her head to face the camera.

Jesus, it must be the booze. Viper shuddered. He struggled to draw in breath, his eyes locked onto the picture of the girl’s face. Christ, yes, it was the booze. Just pissed, Viper old son, just pissed.

Now he recognized the girl’s face.

Forget her long hair. Somehow the face reminded him of how he looked when he was thirteen or fourteen. Sort of clean, unlived in, innocent. The same shaped eyes and nose with a spattering of freckles.

Spuggy stabbed her. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly.

But it wasn’t right. He must have missed, cut himself somehow. Spuggy had split his right forearm open from elbow to wrist; blood washed down his legs like the red wine they had splashed about the cellar earlier.

He stabbed again.

This time he only managed to pierce his groin with the steel blade. He was yelling and swearing and screaming. He blundered against the tripods sending the pictures swinging wildly on the TVs.

Viper could only hear dimly. Spuggy’s face was just a mask, blown up like a Halloween balloon twisting and splitting in pain and fury.

He struck again at the girl’s breast.

Again he missed and the huge blade ended up lodged deep in his ribs just above his belly. The screaming mask face seemed to deflate and Spuggy flopped limply down.

On the screen, Viper could just make out the girl. She was unhurt. Her face, expressionless, still looked how he once did as a boy. She was watching him. He sensed she wanted to help him but didn’t know how. Or maybe he simply didn’t know how to ask for her help.

Christ, he wished he could breathe. He was locked solid in this concrete hard salt crust. Suffocating.

On the portable TV he saw himself. A large white blob. Like a maggot or an insect pupa. Motionless.

I’ll get through this. I will live. I’ll drive that vanful of shit back to that stinking slum in the backside of Yorkshire. All it needs is willpower. I’m alive.

Keep saying it, Viper, mate. Say it Viper.

Say it, you bastard! SAY IT!

I’m alive…

I AM ALIVE.

I AMM ALLI-IVE!

I I I AM—I AM

I… I I… I I I I I I